


Quench That Thirst

by ElliottWitt



Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Alcohol consumption (but with confirmed consent), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Canon, Chaotic bottom, Hair-pulling, Lawful top, M/M, MAKOA IS BIG BOI, Mirage is horny - what else is new, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Size Difference, wall foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElliottWitt/pseuds/ElliottWitt
Summary: Elliott is feeling particularly put-out after a loss in the ring, and opts to drown his sorrows in a bar where he thinks he'll be able to nurse his ego alone. However, his self-pity is interrupted by a fellow legend from Solace, and Elliott all of a sudden no longer feels like moping completely by himself.





	Quench That Thirst

**Author's Note:**

> I AM SO SAD THIS SHIP IS SO UNDERLOVED and thus this was born. 
> 
> Massive thanks to all the encouragement of my lovelies over on our NSFW apex server, otherwise I would have never ended up finishing this <3\. 
> 
> Most of all, the BIGGEST thanks to [volatileSoloist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/volatileSoloist/pseuds/volatileSoloist), for not only the encouragement but also such a through beta and suggestions, as well as 100% bolstering my confidence to share this. This fic would be an absolute shambles of past and present tense if not for them, and I am so thankful for all the time they put into helping improve this <3

_I make a better goddamn Old Fashioned than this._

Elliott is fully aware that glowering down at the drink in front of him is, all things considered, an _incredibly_ petty action to be indulging in. Regardless, focusing his resentment on the beverage he’d gone and spent actual money on allows him some temporary relief from stewing on the events of that day.

His side still throbs considerably, forcing him to shift his weight every so often, and wincing as he feels the bandages rub against the still-fresh wound. Generally, drinking is ill-advised in the immediate aftermath of a match, but, well—Elliott isn’t exactly known for taking other people’s advice.

“Orange isn’t even properly peeled,” he mutters to himself, plucking out the offending fruit and flicking it to the side. The MRVN working the bar swivels its head in his direction, and its screen briefly flashes an exclamation of alarm—but soon returns to its usual affable green. Elliott sighs, and takes a long swig of his drink, reassuring himself that he most definitely is not disappointed the robot didn’t choose to pick a fight with him. He is absolutely not still feeling resentful of the final blow Pathfinder had dealt him in the ring earlier that day. _Definitely_ not.

Still, though. Did he really have to go for the high five as Elliott had keeled over?

That just felt...well, _mean_.

Anyway, it’s fine, because Elliott isn’t harbouring any grudges whatsoever. He’s just like any other person here, just a normal, average guy on a Friday night, enjoying a drink and not thinking about much more than that.

Even though he does make a better Old Fashioned than this, and his bandaged wounds still feel damp with blood. 

Okay, _fine_. Maybe he isn’t quite like any other patron here, and maybe he is still a tiny bit resentful. But just a _bit_. 

“I still make better drinks,” he grumbles aloud, taking another healthy swig.

He’s interrupted by an unexpected—and strangely familiar?—deep chuckle from somewhere nearby. He almost chokes on his drink, and has to bang his fist on his chest to save himself from spluttering everywhere. He inwardly curses himself—he _hates_ his stupid habit of talking to himself, and the humiliation of being caught engaging in such a ridiculous act always stings. Elliott can feel his cheeks burning red hot, and just the very fact that he’s been caught chattering to himself aloud like some kind of weirdo, on top of the fact he’s now currently trying not to choke—well, it only makes the flush _and_ the coughing worse.

He’s surprised—no, more than that, downright _shocked_ —to feel a sizable hand slam him square in the centre of his back. It does no favours for his rib injury, but it does help him regain his breath, and he sucks in a sharp inhale. It takes him a moment to even out his breathing again, and once he just about manages it, he becomes all too aware that the hand on his back is _still_ there. Large and warm and comforting, and—oh—had he mentioned _large_? And it’s not just _there_ anymore, it’s rubbing his back in a reassuring and surprisingly gentle way.

Well, fuck. 

This really is not helping with the blush lighting up Elliott’s cheeks.

There’s nothing for it, then, once Elliott gets his breath back. He inhales deeply, taking a second to summon the persona that comes so easily for him now—not Elliott the anxious mess, but _Mirage_. He _feels_ his shoulders relax, feels the corners of his lips curl upwards up into an _easy_ smile, his entire posture taking on an almost lackadaisical look. Like this is nothing. Like such a minor social paux doesn’t bother him.

( _It was so much easier being Mirage than Elliott. Sometimes he wished they could just simply switch places._ )

Elliott swivels in his bar stool, practiced smile set firmly on his face. It falters for a moment, however, once he realises he _knows_ his saviour.

Even outside of the games, Elliott reckons he’d have a hard time forgetting _this_ face. Strong jaw, twinkling eyes, black hair loosely bundled up at the back of his head—but most importantly, an easy smile that really made you _feel_ like everything was going to be okay.

Elliot is used to smiles. He uses them frequently, mainly for his own benefit. This smile is... different. This man smiles at him like his smile is for _him_ alone. Easy and free, and so very comforting.

Oh. And he’s _big_. 

Like, _big_.

Maybe that isn’t so important to mention. But, you know.

He’s _big_.

Elliott hadn’t seen him outside the arena before—so in his _defence_ —he had never actually realised just how large the other man was. Besides, with all that armour, it’s hard to tell. And, you know, in the arena, he had other things to think about. Like all the people shooting at him. 

But here he is, much more stripped down. Devoid of armour, he has opted for just a simple black tank top and nondescript cargo pants, with nothing much more in the way of decoration. Save, of course, for his tattoos, which stretch down beneath his tank, across his chest, and over the length of both arms.

And, oh, fuck, _fuck_ , Elliott’s staring.

When he lifts his gaze back to the other man’s face, it becomes apparent that _that_ hasn’t gone unnoticed.

Well. So much for hiding blushes.

That’s too difficult a task when his earlier competitor, Gibraltar, is standing at his side, still grinning, and _still_ reassuringly running his hand over his back.

“You okay there, brother?” 

Instinct kicks in, and Elliott snaps back to himself—to Mirage’s self. He sweeps the hair out of his eyes and fixes Gibraltar with a lazy smile, as if nothing—humiliating as it had been—had ever happened.

“Me? Oh, I’m just peachy. Just, you know,” He makes a vague sweeping gesture, encompassing both his drink and the bartender, “poorly-made drinks can do that to a person.”

Elliott’s not entirely certain, but he thinks he might see the skull emoji flash on the MRVN unit’s screen, just for a moment. By the time he glances back that way, the MRVN is cheerfully attending to another patron.

“Mmm, I dunno,” hums the other man. His eyes dart towards the empty bar stool at his side, and—after Elliott gives the barest tilt of his head in consent—he slips into it. “I reckon I can spot a sore loser when I see one.”

Elliott’s affable expression slips instantaneously into a scowl. Before he can even respond, Gibraltar is laughing, and waving over the MRVN unit for a drink. 

“See? Sore loser. If you weren’t, this wouldn’t be bothering you.”

It’s extremely irritating to Elliott just how much sense the other man is making. He takes his annoyance out on his rapidly dwindling beverage—and okay, _yes_ , he’ll get another drink since the unit is over here anyway but Gibraltar is most _certainly_ not paying for it—by stabbing the melting ice with his straw. 

“I’m not a sore _loser_ ,” he protests, ignoring the pain in his side that the violent ice demolition is triggering, “It’s just. I coulda done better. People want…” He trails off, gnawing his lip. “They don’t want a hero that goes down so easily.”

The other man chuckles again—goddamnit, he _is_ paying for Elliott’s drink and Elliott doesn’t even have time to object—and sips his pint of beer. His eyes close briefly as he drinks, and oh, his lashes are _very_ dark and _very_ long and oh—

_No, Elliott,_ he curses himself. _Not the time, not the place, not the goddamn fucking man_.

“You ever hear of SARAS?”

Elliott blinks, confused by the question and sudden change of subject. Of course he’s heard of SARAS—he’d grown up on Solace, spent his entire life here. He’d had brothers who—

No. He definitely doesn’t want to go there.

“Well,” he responds instead, “obviously. Who hasn’t?”

“My parents were in ‘em,” Gibraltar replies, taking a casual sip of his drink. “Saved my life, once, as well as someone I cared about. Heroes, they…” He trails off then, his gaze thoughtfully sweeping across the room, “well, they come in all shapes and forms. It’s not just about the glory.”

Elliott attempts to follow his gaze, but—in one corner, two men appear to be arguing with one another over entirely separate topics, whilst in another, three people within a booth are engaging in a level of intimacy that even _Elliott_ might balk at—well, in public, anyway.

He wrinkles his nose.

“I think you’re being a tad bit too generous.”

Gibraltar laughs again, and _oh_ , that sound is most definitely doing something to Elliott. There’s a familiar stirring in his gut that he doesn’t entirely want to acknowledge—certainly not to someone who bested him in the ring today—but still, he shifts in his bar stool uncomfortably. He can’t even bring himself to care about the fresh stab of pain that the movement causes. 

“What I _mean_ ,” Gibraltar continues, “is that _you_ are being too limiting.”

The MRVN delivers Elliott a fresh drink, and okay, yes, it is one hundred percent flashing a skull emoji on its display every time it turns towards him, but he takes it all the same. He tries to make a show of begrudging acceptance, but his newfound drinking partner doesn’t appear to notice. Or maybe doesn’t care. 

“It’s not limiting,” he insists, “you know _that_ as well as anyone else in the ring. The crowd wants someone they can rally behind, they want a _show_ , they want something—some _one_ —worth cheering for. Getting almost immediately knocked out by a semi-sociopathic MRVN isn’t particularly _inspiring_. And you know,” he pauses, briefly, gesturing with his whiskey tumbler, “especially after the war. People want _heroes_. A-a-after everything that’s been lost…” 

Elliot trails off, all too aware suddenly that he’s rambling on top of the fact that his stupid nervous stutter is kicking in. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks again but, well, fuck it—he can blame it on the whiskey now at the very least. 

Gibraltar just watches him, calmly sipping his beer. It’s mildly encouraging to see that Elliott’s ravings haven’t elicited any particular negative reaction, no furrow in his brow, no subtle shifting away. He sets his pint glass down, and leans back, bracing his hands against the bar as he tilts backwards and cracks the muscles in his back with a slow, deliberate shrug. Elliott has to hide his gaze in his drink then—he doubts the other man was intending to be provocative, but, well—he’sdoing a very good job of it, all the same.

“You,” the larger man announces, “should care less about what other people think. The games, yeah? Lotta people think it’s about glory, ‘bout fame, but.... It’s about you, even more. It’s about you and your squad, and working together. Keeping one another safe. And, y’know, end of the day? Should be about having fun.” He takes another long sip of his beer, and Elliott is struggling to not stare at the way his throat bobs as he does so. “Shouldn’t be about winning or losing. Just do your best, and be proud of yourself for giving it your best shot.”

Elliott doesn’t even try to contain his snort of disbelief.

“Easy for you to say,” he mutters, “you _won_.”

Gibraltar chuckles again at that, and Elliott can sense that he’s turned his face towards his. It’s tempting to keep his own buried in his drink—better to hide it there than to turn and end up stammering nonsense, like a fool—but the other man brings such a strange sort of comfort that he ends up tilting his own to match the other’s gaze. Gibraltar smiles, and it’s just so _easy_ —easier than Elliott’s own, perhaps because there’s nothing performative about it, that it’s just for him, not for a crowd or to impress—

It’s just for Elliott alone.

“And that’s where you’re wrong,” Gibraltar announces, “happiness, joy, pride, it doesn’t come with just winning. That’s not just what people are rooting for back here on Solace, not what they’re looking for in their competitors. They’re rooting for you, sure, but they don’t judge you on _victory _. It’s about watching the experience. The excitement. The—ah, you know…” He pauses, ponderously, considering.__

__Elliott has to marvel for a moment, at how relaxed he is about needing to take the time to think about his words. That’s half Elliott’s problem—he’s always trying to race towards the smartest thing to say, the wittiest thing, the most impressive, that most of the time his mouth doesn’t have time to catch up with his brain. Gibraltar, meanwhile, doesn’t seem to feel any shame in taking a minute to weigh up his words, and Elliott feels a rather bizarre tickle of envy as he watches him. It doesn’t make the other man seem slow or stupid, rather, it endears Elliott all the more to him. He seems...well, _considerate_._ _

__“People here have been through a lot. Well, not just here, but—you’re from Solace too, right?” He waits for a response, and then once Elliott nods, “then you know just as well. The war took a lot from us all.” Elliott feels his hand tighten inadvertently around his glass, and he _really_ hopes the other man didn’t notice the fact. If he did, he hides any reaction well. “You’re a hero to the people here on Solace, brother. Just for showing up, just for competing, just for doing the best that you can do! That don’t mean winning every time, it just gives folk here at home something—some _one_ to root behind. Take their mind off—well—everything else. That’s what counts.”_ _

__Gibraltar concludes his—well, it probably could be considered a speech—by taking a final long swig of his beer, and setting the empty glass back on the bar with a satisfied sigh. Despite himself, Elliott finds the corner of his mouth twitching upwards, and he finishes off his own. He signals the MRVN for another round for the two of them, and you know, if the unit was gonna poison him, at least now he had a witness._ _

__“ _Gibraltar_ , huh?” Elliott announces, swivelling in his bar stool to properly face his companion. He flicks the hair out of his face, and flashes him one of his oh-so-famous winning smiles. “Well, I’m Elliott. Elliott Witt.”_ _

__He extends a hand, and is momentarily bemused when the other man purses his lips, seemingly biting back a smile. He feels an anxious flurry twitch behind his ribcage—had he said something wrong?_ _

__“Nice to meet you, Elliott,” the larger man finally replies, clasping Elliott’s hand and _oh, God,_ his hand really was large enough to almost completely engulf his own, “You’re right. It _is_ Gibraltar. Makoa Gibraltar.”_ _

__Composure be damned, Elliott can’t help but snort._ _

__“ _Seriously_? You use your real name? Shit, man, what about a little creativity?” _ _

__He regrets his words pretty much the moment they’re out of his mouth, and it takes a great deal of self-control to not immediately throw back the entire new glass of whiskey the bartender brought over, poison be _damned_. Trust him to insult the extremely fucking handsome man sitting beside him, who was only trying to make him feel better, trust him to put his fucking foot in his mouth fucking _again_ —_ _

__But to his complete and utter surprise, Gibraltar—Makoa—just throws back his head and laughs.  
It’s such a _nice_ laugh, so very like his smile, so completely relaxed and free, that Elliott can’t help but grinning along with him._ _

__“That’s me,” he proclaims, reaching for his new pint, still smiling, “no frills. No offence, I like all you guys’ personas, but, ah, and don’t get me wrong here,” He turns his head back towards Elliott there, and well, fuck, call Elliott downright crazy, but he swears he sees something that is _dangerously_ close to flirtatious contained within that smile, “The flashiness ain’t quite my style. You, however,” He makes a sweeping gesture, encompassing all of Elliott in a way that is making him really, _really_ , just entirely forget the throbbing pain in his side that had been dominating his attention most of the night, “it suits just fine.” _ _

__That smile again. His teeth really are very white. Elliott is probably still blushing, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to care._ _

__“Mirage,” Makoa continues, and there really shouldn’t be such a twist in Elliott’s gut when he says it—he hears the name announced over the tannoys several times a week, hears the crowd chant it in adoration whenever he enters the ring, hears the news anchors of Solace sing his praises on the television almost every night—but it’s never sounded quite like _this_ —“I like it.”_ _

__Fuck, Elliott’s feeling practically _bashful_ at this point, which is _definitely_ not his style. He’s fairly certain the line has crossed from pep talk over into what is veering dangerously close to seduction, and this is a game he likes to consider himself particularly skilled at. Any other time, and it would be him taking the lead, balancing coquettishly on the bar, perhaps summoning up a decoy just to showboat, another tactical display of his own considerable skill to further beguile his partner. But Gibraltar— _Makoa_ —has already seen first-hand what Elliott can do, and really, it hasn’t been all that impressive, and yet— _yet_ — here he is, still._ _

__Leaning on the bar with his arms folded, and smiling lazily at Elliott in a way that somehow managed to seem relaxed, whilst also promising… _something_._ _

__It’s usually Elliott—well, _Mirage_ —leaving the other person flushing profusely and trying desperately to hide it, be it squirming in their seat or trying to mask a receptive smile by taking a fair old chug of booze. It’s incredibly disorienting for him to find the roles reversed._ _

__Disorienting, and like a fucking idiot, he has no idea what to say next. He’s so used to taking the lead, but apparently that’s not happening, and, well, Makoa is just still grinning at him so _patiently_ …_ _

__Oh, fuck it._ _

___Fuck it._ _ _

__“You know,” Elliott announces, straightening up suddenly and throwing back the rest of his drink—which was a considerable amount and _fuck_ , does that burn—“I’ve always thought this bar was an absolute dive. If you want a drink made _well_ ,” and oh, to hell with it, he’d already had the shit beat out of him by a MRVN unit earlier, what’s another sociopathic synthetic bartender to add the list? “You should come with me. You know.” He hesitates, all too aware of how heavily his heart is hammering in his chest. “Outta here. I got—g-got—“ _Not now, fuck, not **now**_ —“a pretty decent supply of booze at home. Good stuff. Better stuff.”_ _

__The MRVN isn’t even trying to disguise the skull emoji on its display anymore, nor the dark black underlay. Elliott doesn’t give a shit—if anything, he’s grateful. Glaring down the automaton saves him from having to meet Makoa’s considering gaze, and having to agonize over whether he’d yet _again_ fucked it all up, or, well—_ _

__“Sounds good.”_ _

__Elliott is snapped out of his death glare match with the MRVN—who he swears to fucking _god_ had just illuminated its eye and display in a threatening red in an attempt to goad him further—to whip his head around and appraise Makoa in surprise. He’d expected more... well, he isn’t sure what he’d expected. He hadn’t fucking expected to end up here in this bar with the very same fucking man who has _bested_ him in the ring, let alone be suggesting to go home with him that night. He picked this bar for a _reason_ , _because_ it was a dive, because the people here are all too wrapped up in their own shit to pay attention to one of their planet’s local ‘heroes’ wallowing in self-pity on a nearby bar stool. He came here not to be seen. And now this man he knows from the very ring was very much… seeing him._ _

__And appears to be consenting to seeing considerably more of him._ _

__Fuck. Well. The bed was made, isn’t it? Might as well lie in it._ _

__Presumably innuendo and all._ _

__Elliott makes a show of flicking his hair out of his face once again, combing his fingers through his dark tresses, hoping that he comes off at least _semi_ laid-back about the whole situation. Or at least as if he was viewing the whole scenario in a similar way to Makoa—casual, easy. Like this was no big deal._ _

__And it _isn’t_ a big deal. It’s just like every other encounter Elliott brings home. Just another nothing, just another—_ _

__Fuck. If it’s any of these things, why is he still thinking about it this much?_ _

__He slides off his barstool, but not before leaving the MRVN a considerable tip. Well—ten percent—which is still more than most folk these days leave any kind of synthetic service worker.  
He’s really not sure what to make of the blank faced emoji the unit flashes back at him in response, and prays to whatever divine powers are out there, that he doesn’t feel the repercussions of his earlier rudeness in the morning._ _

__“Well then,” Makoa announces, slipping off the barstool himself and gathering himself up in front of Elliott, gazing down at him with that same, easy smile. “Shall we?”_ _

__Shit. He’d never stood toe-to-toe quite like this with the other man before either and, well—_ _

__He really _was_ larger than him, in more ways than one._ _

__Elliott does his utmost to answer Makoa’s enquiry with a wicked grin that Mirage would be proud of. He tilts his head towards the exit._ _

__“Let me make you a _real_ drink.”_ _

__He can feel the MRVN’s parting glare following him, as the two of them make their exit. It’s possible he won’t be able to return to said bar._ _

__Well. He’s pretty sure it’ll be worth it._ _

__**_ _

__Neither say much the entire cab ride home, Gibraltar evidently much more than comfortable with simple, companionable silence, whilst Elliott inwardly frets. He isn’t entirely sure what state he’s left his apartment in—he likes to think he keeps the place in _relatively_ decent shape, his mother had let him get away with bloody murder for the most part of his childhood but ever since his brothers—since—well, he’d made more of an effort with attending to things like helping her keep a tidy home. He had his own place now, of course, and he hasn’t let himself get _too_ lax—but his mother had her own bad habits, passed down to Elliott, and she herself had a tendency to leave her engineering equipment scattered about that Elliott had inherited. He’s also pretty sure he’s left a hefty amount of (clean? Oh, _God_ , he hopes so) gauze strewn across the coffee table, where he’d dressed his wounds earlier, and _that_ wasn’t exactly gonna add to the mood, nor was—had he even cleaned away last night’s takeout cartons? Oh, fuck._ _

__Bed. Made. Lie in it._ _

__And just hope Makoa still wants to once he makes his way back there._ _

__Elliott stumbles slightly as he clambers out of the cab—only to be steadied by Makoa’s firm hand on his shoulder. It’s so _warm_ and _present_ , that he can’t help but allow himself to sink into its grip, just for a moment. There’s no need for the persona of Mirage any longer: thanks to the _beauty_ of whiskey, every muscle in his body seems to have taken on a lazy, almost catlike, quality of their own._ _

__“You okay there, brother?”_ _

__Elliott tilts his head to the side, grinning almostly coyly. Makoa is still—not put off, far from it—no, he’s still smiling, but there’s just the barest tinge of concern hidden beneath his expression too. Elliott recognises what is is, and it strikes him with a squeeze to the heart, causing his smile to split his cheeks._ _

__Makoa is wondering whether he’s too drunk to consent to this or not._ _

__It’s nice being buried against the larger man’s side and all, but Elliott pushes himself away, forces himself upright before flashing him another winning grin. See? Perfect posture and all. It’s incredibly tempting to call upon a decoy, to accentuate the difference between sober Elliott and drunk Elliott, but, well—_ _

__He gets the feeling Makoa wouldn’t be as impressed as most of the other people he takes home, with his ‘ _tricks_ ’._ _

__“All good,” Elliott proclaims, beaming, even leaning through the cab window to transfer payment. No stumbling at all. He rightens himself, and does his utmost to—well, he thought that fluttering his hands in the direction of his apartment might appear _casual_. It’s clearly far from, and he can feel his cheeks sear hot yet _again_ —but Makoa still somehow doesn’t seem to mind. Just grins right back at him, and folds his arms._ _

__“So, Elliott. Lead the way. I’m looking forward to that drink.”_ _

__**_ _

__As he fumbles with the datapad allowing the access codes for his flat, Elliott is seized by the sudden and utterly inane urge to inform Makoa that he’s usually better at this. It’s stupid—the other man wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t at least _somewhat_ interested, so it isn’t like Elliott can be fucking it all up _that_ much. And Makoa certainly doesn’t seem to be losing any interest as they make their way inside. Rather, he’s standing at ease in Elliott’s living room, arms casually folded—not impatiently, not unimpressed, just—relaxed. Much more relaxed than Elliott is, which is especially stupid given this is his _own_ fucking home._ _

__He isn't usually this nervous and—okay, yeah, sure he has a tendency to veer towards being self-conscious, even with random hookups but—this is something _more_._ _

__It strikes him suddenly that he’s been seized with the urge to _impress_ Gibraltar, in a way he’s never quite experienced before._ _

__The realisation sends an unexpected flush to his cheeks, and he abruptly turns away, makes his way to his drinks cabinet._ _

__“Just beer?” he inquires, cheerily, as he fumbles for glasses. “That’s fine, but I promise I can rustle you up something _much_ more interesting.” This much was familiar, at least. He hadn’t been lying—he was a _very_ good bartender, murderous MVRNs be damned._ _

__“Surprise me,” Makoa replies, and Elliott is _extremely_ grateful that he’s got his back turned because the low rumble of Makoa’s voice has not only _worsened_ his already obvious blush, but induces an equally embarrassing thick gulp. All things considered, it’s _fine_ that there’s a clear pooling of heat stirring just beneath his abdomen—they’d made it this far, right? The cards were already on the table._ _

__Still._ _

__He can feel Makoa’s eyes trained steadily on his back as he mixes drinks, with enough intensity that the knot in his gut tightens _dangerously_._ _

__Years of training mean that despite distractions, he’s at least able to gracefully assemble two Old Fashioneds, and he’s confident that they more than measure up to his own standards._ _

__Makoa accepts his, graciously, and closes his eyes as he inhales the liquor’s aroma. Elliott can’t help but catch his breath a moment, as he’s reminded just how thick the other man’s lashes are, and just—that _jaw_..._ _

__He opens his eyes—and if he caught Elliott staring, doesn’t seem to mind—before flashing him a broad smile. Makao holds his drink aloft, in Elliott’s direction._ _

__“To good times,” Makoa announces, and Elliott would almost bet his life on it that the spark in his eyes is deliberately wicked, “in whatever shape or form they come in.”_ _

__“Good times,” Elliott replies, trying to echo back that grin. He desperately hopes that the anxious eagerness that is increasingly tightening its grip behind his ribcage isn’t showing on his face. “That’s what I’m all about.”_ _

__They clink glasses, before they both take a healthy sip. Makoa licks his lips— _God_ , they’re such _full_ lips too—and chuckles lightly to himself, slipping backwards and down onto Elliott’s couch._ _

__“That,” he proclaims, tossing his free arm across the back of the couch as he crosses his legs casually, “is a _damn_ good drink. You were right. Guess it ain’t just a show after all, huh?”_ _

__It’s just a compliment on his ability to make a fucking _beverage_ , but Elliott finds himself grinning like an idiot all the same, some of the weight of self-consciousness nestling in his chest suddenly lifted. He allows himself to flop back onto the couch in an similarly off-handed manner, taking a good long swig of his drink as he did. The tart sweetness of the citrus mixed with the comforting warmth of whiskey unfurling at the back of his throat does a small bit to bolster his self-esteem—he _knew_ he made a better drink._ _

__He hasn’t paid particular attention to the direction in which he’s thrown himself—albeit, on reflection, he was probably more than aware—but he’s most certainly in a position that can only really be described as ‘nestled’ beneath Makoa’s shoulder. The larger man doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, Elliott is fairly sure he leans into the newfound warmth pressed against him. It fills Elliott with enough daring that he shuffles forward just that bit further, firmly nuzzling himself beneath Makoa’s quite frankly _absurdly_ muscled arms, and—well—dangerously close to his oh-so- _very_ broad chest._ _

__It’s very hard not to stare. Especially with that tank top exposing so much of Makoa’s tanned, tattooed skin, and you know—_ _

__Whiskey._ _

__Good excuse._ _

__Fortunately, none of this seems to bother Makoa more than anything else did. Elliott is getting to the point of wondering whether the other man _can_ be phased—he’s so easy-going, so relaxed, so open to taking everything in his stride, no matter what the world throws in his path, that, well…_ _

__Elliott is horny, but all the same, there’s a strange stirring of jealousy in his gut._ _

__He has to put on such an act of nonchalance constantly, is so always constantly fixated on entertaining the crowds— _his brothers, his mother, making himself the centre of attention, no, no—don’t go—don’t go there_ —it’s hard to not feel envious of a person to whom ease just seems to ooze off so very naturally._ _

__The sudden stir of jealousy throws him so much, that he’s filled with an immediate urge to push back against it. And thus—after taking a very, very long swig of his drink, to the point he’s nearly emptied it and both his throat and eyes burn—he sets the glass down, and presses himself that bit closer to Makoa’s side. Hands free, his fingers drift lazily to the nape of Makoa’s neck, toying with the loose strands of hair there that had escaped the tie he held them in._ _

__There’s no ignoring Makoa’s shiver. Nor the way his fingers tighten around the glass he’s holding._ _

__Elliott smiles—and for once, _smiles_. Slightly tipsy, yes, but—openly, and free. _ _

__His fingers drift around Makoa’s neck, idly tracing the thick muscle there. Makoa’s eyes flutter shut, very briefly, before opening. He swiftly drains most of his drink, before leaning forwards and setting his glass down alongside Elliott’s. As he settles back against the couch, his eyes meet Elliott’s and — _oh_._ _

__There’s a blaze that sets any lingering fears Elliott might be getting wrong ideas totally at ease._ _

__Makoa—with surprising gentleness—brushes his knuckles over Elliott’s cheek, drifting down so as to allow his hand to cup his jaw. Elliott feels his own eyelids flutter shut, and he inadvertently leans in towards the other man._ _

__He can feel Makoa’s other hand push Elliott’s fringe out of his face, fit it back with the rest of his hair—before suddenly knotting his fingers in those same dark waves, and pulling him forwards._ _

__As their lips meet, Elliott wonders why the fuck he had ever thought this might be a bad idea._ _

__Really, it’s a fucking _fantastic_ idea. Makoa’s lips are _incredibly_ soft, and—well—Elliott can’t help himself, he finds his tongue curiously running over them. Gibraltar doesn’t appear to have any objections—far from it, his lips part to allow Elliott’s tongue meet his own. And oh _fuck_ , fuck, _fuck_ , he’s been turned on for quite a while but this is really—this is really _happening_ , and the spark that’s been stirring in his gut for the last few hours is erupting into a blazing flame._ _

__A flare so intense that it urges Elliott up from his lounging position on the couch, sitting up and straddling both of Makoa’s thick thighs with his own. He lowers himself down onto the larger man’s lap, biting back a grin at the lustful look the repositioning earns him._ _

__Fuck it, Elliott may have been a fumbling idiot back in the bar, but his ability to make a decent cocktail isn’t his _only_ skill, and he’s determined to show it. He coyly curls both his arms around Makoa’s neck, lingering just a moment so as to breathe against his lips— _oh_ , but those _lips_ , it’s taking all he can to keep himself from seizing them—but luckily, Gibraltar beats him to the punch. Thick arms slip around Elliott’s waist, tugging him tight— _tight_ , so much that so Elliott lets out a surprised gasp—against the broader man’s frame, one hand swiftly travelling up Elliott’s spine and pulling him down to meet him in a kiss that’s practically _devouring_. Their mouths open against one another almost instantaneously, and Elliott can’t help himself, buries his fingers in Gibraltar’s hair— _deep_ —fingernails scratching against scalp. Makoa groans, his own hands clawing meaningfully into Elliott’s t-shirt, to the point that Elliott himself pulls back with a gasp, only to tug it over his head and toss it into a corner. Makoa seems to take a moment to gaze at his torso, a hand coming up to graze over one particularly lengthy older scar, stretching from his abdomen all the way to his hip bone. His thumb lightly traces over its length with a look of wonder, and Elliott shudders._ _

__Having his war wounds admired with such reverence is nice and all, but Elliott feels like there’s much more pressing matters at hand. Such as the amount of clothing the other man is still wearing. He flips his hair out of his face, and tugs at Makoa’s tank stubbornly, a small frown creasing his brow._ _

__“No fair,” he announces._ _

__It’s childish, but— _truly_ , does _nothing_ phase this man?—Makoa just laughs, reaches down and helps Elliott’s fumbling attempts to relieve him of his clothing._ _

__And, _oh_._ _

__Elliott can’t help but sit back on Makoa’s lap for just a moment—well—definitely more than a moment, letting the sight of him sink in. His tank hadn’t really left much to the imagination as it was, but he finds his palms drift almost in awe up Makoa’s toned torso, his tattooed chest, the intricate patterns that intertwine all the way up from his pectorals to his shoulder muscles and then those arms again—God, it had been quite one thing seeing him out of his armour._ _

__Quite another seeing him stripped down like this, and with—_ _

__Elliott bites his lip, thumb idly tracing the contours of Makoa’s clavicle, before rocking his hips forward experimentally._ _

__Yeah. With _this_. With a hard-on that was making all the blood rush to Elliott’s dick faster than he’d ever remembered. Makoa’s hands almost immediately fly to Elliott’s hips, snatching them urgently before bucking upwards to meet Elliott’s own._ _

__Unbidden, a needy whine escapes Elliott’s lips, rocking himself purposely so as to grind himself down against the other man’s erection. He might have even have had the opportunity to be embarrassed, but—suddenly, without any warning—Gibraltar’s hands slide down his hips and beneath, grabbing onto his ass firmly, before lifting him easily up and off the couch. His legs snap automatically around Makoa’s waist, and he has to be purposely tugged by the hair away from Gibraltar’s mouth._ _

__“Bed,” Makoa, demands, panting. Elliott is equally breathless, and it takes him one or two gulps of air before he’s just about able to signal Gibraltar in the direction of his bedroom. The larger man carries him towards it with an ease that is doing absolutely _nothing_ to quell the frantic need stirring in his gut, nor the hardness pressing borderline painfully against his belt._ _

__They make it to the bedroom, although once Makoa kicks the door closed behind him, he makes no move towards the bed. Rather, he slams Elliott suddenly up against the wall, still holding him aloft._ _

__Elliott can’t even mask the piteous whine that escapes him in that moment if he wanted to. The pleased grin it earns him from Gibraltar makes the small amount of lingering shame _more_ than worth it. So much so that the distant dull throbbing of pain from his earlier injuries don’t seem to even factor into his senses any longer. _ _

__“You like this, huh?” Makoa murmurs, leaning in close enough to gently nip Elliott’s earlobe, nibbling his way down to the muscles in Elliott’s neck._ _

__Elliott isn’t so far gone that he can’t still return fire._ _

__“Like what?” he responds, with as much innocence as he can summon. He echoes such chastity by idly allowing his fingers to drift down Makoa’s spine, letting them rest just over—no, _under_ —the waistband of his cargo pants. There’s a low rumble he can feel vibrate through Makoa’s chest in response, and it thrills him more than he can say._ _

__He doesn’t get away from it for long, though. Gibraltar pins him just that bit firmer against the wall, releases one hand that was supporting him from under his thighs— _fuck_ , but he was strong—and buries it in his hair, pulling it back with enough force to meet his eyes. _ _

__Brown eyes._ _

__Burning with a hunger that takes even Elliott by surprise._ _

__It would be easy to linger too long on those eyes, but Elliott’s suddenly far too distracted by the wicked nature of Makoa’s grin. That, and the hand still supporting him up against the wall deliberately squeezing his thigh._ _

__“You like this,” Makoa states, simply, “losing control. You like someone else taking charge, yeah?”_ _

__And by _fuck_ , if Makoa isn’t right. Another time, Elliott might be able to wax lyrical to him about how the persona of Mirage was so much about being _confident_ , being self-assured, in control of not just himself but also the decoys and _their_ performance too. _ _

__Was it really so bad to want to be the one being taken control of?_ _

__He could say this. He really could._ _

__Easier, however, to flash Makoa a wicked grin before catching the other man’s lower lip between his teeth—hard, not enough to break skin, but _hard_ —then release._ _

__“Find that out for yourself.”_ _

__Makoa makes a noise as he exhales, which Elliott can only interpret as positive, especially because he immediately begins to fumble between them, struggling with Elliott’s belt. Elliott is way ahead of him, and has already artfully undone Gibraltar’s belt and shoved his pants down just past his ass, eagerly slipping his hand between the two of them to discover— _oh_. And he may have even verbalised his disbelief against the other man’s lips, because Gibraltar—between his fumbling with his jeans—manages to mouth his jaw, kiss his cheek, nip his earlobe before murmuring: _ _

__“It’s okay. It can just be like this.”_ _

__Ellliot snatches him by the jaw, forces their eyes to meet. And grins._ _

__“You,” he announces, “should fuck me. Hard. And _now_.”_ _

__Makoa’s brown eyes burn even more intensely, and with evident renewed determination, yanks Elliott’s belt off and tugs at his jeans. It takes a little bit of shifting, what with Elliott so firmly pinned up against the wall and having no intentions of letting himself be set back down, but they eventually both manage to shimmy his jeans and briefs down just far enough that his cock springs free. Elliott groans, his head falling back against the wall with an audible _thud_. He bucks his hips, urgently, in Makoa’s grip, sliding his hand back into the larger man’s hair and tugging on it furiously. His eyelids flutter open, forcing Gibraltar to meet his gaze so that he can fix him with a desperate look._ _

__“Touch me,” he gasps, “please.”_ _

__Makoa, for his part, seemed to have been preoccupied staring at Elliott’s aching cock, already heavily leaking with precum. His partner’s words—and presumably, the hair tugging—seem to snap him out of his trance, and he nods, still breathless but chasing Elliott’s words with another kiss all the same._ _

__“Okay,” he murmurs, breath so very hot against Elliott’s lips, “okay.”_ _

__The hand not currently supporting Elliott up against the wall drifts down over Elliott’s torso before finally, _finally_ , wrapping itself around his dick. And _fuck_ , he’s almost forgotten just how goddamn _large_ Gibraltar’s fucking hands are—Elliott’s hips _snap_ forwards, trying to urge the pace that he feels he’s been denied already _far_ too long. His efforts are simply met with a breathy chuckle against his neck, as Makoa thumbs the slit of his cock, spreading the precum found there and coyly circling the head with it. He slowly— _too_ fucking slowly—drags his hand down to the base of Elliott’s dick, spreading the wetness that continues to spill from the tip, sufficiently lubing up the length of his cock as he did so. Which is all well and good, but it’s so _slow_ and Elliott wants _more_ —and yet, no amount of needy whines nor eager thrusting of his hips can encourage the other man to speed up his pace._ _

__Makoa laughs, and Elliott can feel it vibrate against his chest._ _

__“So impatient,” he teases, continuing to jerk Elliott off at an insufferably slow rhythm, “this is your problem. Gotta stop trying to seize the glory right away. Better to take your time, give it your very best and do a damn good job of it. And _enjoy_ it.”_ _

__Goddamnit. The bastard was outright _relishing_ torturing Elliott like this._ _

__Fine. Let’s see how long Gibraltar can have it his way._ _

__Elliott’s hands slide down over Makoa’s chest, nails just ever _so_ lightly raking over his torso as he does so, before coming to rest on his hips. He takes just a _moment_ to graze his thumbs over his hip bones, but wastes little time in his true intentions. His left hand slips around to squeeze Gibraltar’s ass cheek, whilst his right wraps itself around Makoa’s considerably girthy cock. The simple act of that alone is enough to wrench a breathy moan from _both_ of them—Makoa for the sensation, for sure, but for Elliott, his mind is practically seeing fucking stars at the idea that this cock is going to be inside him in the near future._ _

__He squeezes Makoa’s dick, and grins, relishing the groan that that wrenches out of him._ _

__The closer that future, the better._ _

__There’s something very goddamn appealing about the idea of getting fucked up against the wall, especially because Elliott is aware Makoa is _more_ than strong enough to support his weight to actually _do_ it. Frustratingly, however, he keeps his lube in the bedside drawers, and well—_ _

__Elliott might like to bluster, put on an air of bravado of all the things he could take, but there’s no fucking _way_ just saliva is gonna cut it here._ _

__The hand not stroking Makoa’s dick reaches behind him, to where Gibraltar’s hand is supporting his ass, holding him aloft still. He grabs it, and squeezes, flashing a devilish grin._ _

__“Fuck,” he breathes, leaning in so his lips are just inches from Makoa’s, “Me. Now.”_ _

__Either Makoa’s obedient, or he can’t hold out much longer himself. Whichever way, Elliott is just about aware of himself being suddenly whirled away from his bedroom wall, and after two, three determined strides, flung upon his bed._ _

__He glances up at Makoa, who is panting heavily, his gaze seemingly drinking all of Elliott in. Elliott wastes no time, kicks off his socks and shoes, all the while shimmying out of his jeans and briefs, unashamedly tossing them off into some corner of his room. Gibraltar follows suit, ridding himself of any remaining clothing before crawling onto the bed—pausing, one knee balanced on the duvet as he glances once more at Elliott for reassurance._ _

__It’s very sweet, all things considered. Another time, Elliott might have been moved. As it is right now, he _very_ much wants to get fucked by _this_ particular man. _ _

__And so, he urgently juts his chin in the direction of the side-table containing the essentials. Makoa holds his eyes for just a moment—but whatever he sees reflected back at him there seems to set any lingering concerns at ease, and thus he reaches forwards, pulls out the cabinet and locates what he’s looking for without too much trouble. Elliott mainly keeps healing essentials in there, along with—you know—so there was never too much need to go deep delving in that cabinet._ _

__Makoa sits himself back on the mattress, uncaps the lube and gives his dick a few quick strokes, all the while keeping his eyes trained entirely on Elliott. He’s not this used to so much attention from anyone he brings home, and he has to fight the urge to squirm. Especially not such utterly _rapt_ regard—as if there was no one, no any other _thing_ or _place_ in this galaxy that Makoa would rather be looking at in this moment. Elliott tries to mask such insecurities with his usual means; which is, to say, with a _show_. He swings an arm behind himself, nestles his head in the crook of his arm, whilst his other hand slips down between his legs, pumping his cock, once, twice, before throwing his head back and deliberately arching back both his neck and spine as he lets out a needy groan._ _

__His display has the desired effect, and he feels two firm palms grasp his calves, squeezing them lightly before urging them up against his chest. Elliott’s eyes open, and he’s met with the sight of Makoa, dark eyes blazing, glinting with pure and simple wanton _need_. His legs wrap around the other man’s waist, urging him closer. _ _

__He feels a finger, slick with lube, warm against the tightness of his hole, tracing it oh-so-lightly, clearly still just testing whether this is what Elliott really wants. Elliott buries his hand in Makoa’s hair, and captures the larger man’s mouth with his own, open and filthy, and with enough enthusiasm that he damn well _hopes_ there were no further lingering doubts about what he wants._ _

__He’s rewarded with the feeling of a finger slipping inside, and _fuck_ , he’s been wanting for so _long_ , and it’s still somehow not _enough_ —thus he arches his back, grinds his hips needily, pants against Makoa’s lips _more, more, fuck, more_ —and is rewarded with another finger, slick and thick and—_ _

__Fuck. He’s used to needing more, but Makoa’s hands are significantly larger than pretty much _any_ of the partners he’s ever slept with.The stretch is enough to have Elliott digging his heels into the dip of Makoa’s back, but then when he draws back, looks at Elliott and _curls_ his fingers—_ _

__Elliott had gotten noise complaints from neighbours before. He’s pretty certain he’s going to get evicted after tonight._ _

__Worth it though._ _

__Worth being banned from that bar. Worth getting evicted. All, absolutely _worth_ it._ _

__And Makoa hasn’t even put his fucking cock in him yet._ _

__Which. Speaking of._ _

__Tightening his hold on Gibraltar’s hair, he tugs hard enough to break the other man away from sucking red marks across Elliott’s collarbone, all the while thrusting his fingers in and out of his hole in tandem with Elliott’s moans._ _

__“ _Now_ ,” Elliott demands, twisting his grasp and forcing Makoa to meet his eyes. “I’m ready. Just do it _now_.”_ _

__Makoa grins—or was that even a smirk?—and pulls himself upright, reaching for one of the condoms he’d located from Elliott’s stash, as well as more lubricant. He slips the condom on before coating his hand with more lube, stroking himself as he gazes down hungrily at Elliott beneath him, who is more or less _writhing_ at this fucking point. He’s long gone past the point of shame by now, and fortunately, Gibraltar appears to enjoy that fact._ _

__Makoa gently settles himself over Elliott, resting one elbow by his head whilst the other slips between them, teasing the weight of his cock against Elliott’s entrance. Elliott inhales a deep breath, before nodding._ _

__Gibraltar eases himself inside—not fully, but even _that_ was enough for a shocked gasp to escape Elliott. It hurt—of course it fucking hurt—but the _good_ kind of hurt, relishing the stretch as fingernails dug into Makoa’s back, his eyelids fluttering shut._ _

__Makoa hesitates, and when Elliott opens his eyes to see what the hold-up is, feels his chest tighten ever so slightly at the concerned expression adorning the other man._ _

__“Is this—” and Makoa himself sucks in a breath, clearly trying to hold himself back, “is this okay?”_ _

__Elliott swallows. Before promptly clenching his thighs around his waist, and _thrusting_ himself up onto his dick._ _

__Makoa half yells, half grunts some kind of incomprehensible swear, snapping his hips forward so that he’s buried fully inside Elliott. He buries a hand in the tangled, damp mess of Elliott’s curls, panting in his ears as Elliott whimpers piteously beneath him. He feels so utterly and completely _full_ , to the point that he’s barely even aware of the burn and stretch any longer. All he knows is that he wants _more_ , and he wants it _now_. _ _

__He nips Makoa’s earlobe, breathing heavily and practically dizzy with the need of it all._ _

__“I thought,” he mumbles, trailing a line of kisses up to the other man’s temple, “I told you to _fuck_ me.”_ _

__Makoa chuckles against his neck._ _

__“What was all that about you liking someone taking control again?”_ _

__Elliott makes a small noise of frustration, pointedly tightening his legs locked around his waist._ _

__“ _You_ said that,” he protests, “I said you should find out. And this is you finding out that I want you to _fuck me_.”_ _

__His complaints earn him a gentle nip to the neck—which, all things considered, is far from the worst punishment Elliott’s mouth has ever earned him—but Makoa finally, _finally_ , complies._ _

__He lifts himself back up, steadying himself on the weight of one elbow, as he experimentally pulls out before thrusting back in. And oh, _God_ , was that fucking _good_. Elliott tries to verbalise his encouragement, but it comes out more like an unintelligible moan. All the same, it does the trick, and he catches Makoa grinning down at him, before tightening his grip on his hair, pulling it back so as to expose the long line of Elliott’s neck. And only _then_ does he begin to well and truly fuck him._ _

__But. Slowly. All too slowly. Elliott is a piteous, whining mess beneath him currently, and the fact that this seems to amuse Gibraltar is becoming increasingly less cute. He feels like he’s been hard for _hours_ now—and honestly, it’s entirely possible that he _has_ been—but no amount of snapping his hips upwards or drumming his heels against Gibraltar’s back does anything to change things. He tries to reach for his cock, at some point, but Makoa snatches it, pins his hand back against the mattress. _ _

__“I thought you wanted me to fuck you,” the bigger man teases, his lips grazing over Elliott’s ear, and Elliott bangs his head back against the pillow with a whine._ _

__“I said _fuck_ ,” he complains, grinding beneath him, “not fucking _torture_.” _ _

__There’s that low rumble of a laugh from his partner again, and Elliott can feel him grin against his jaw._ _

__“S’pose,” he murmurs, tongue laviously tracing his jawline, “some people never quite learn the art of patience.”_ _

__Elliott was on the point of voicing further rebuttals, however, he’s completely interrupted by Gibraltar suddenly fucking him with a momentum that — _yes. Yes_. It’s exactly what Elliott had been hoping for._ _

__And goddamn, he hates to admit it, but Makoa is right—it was all the better for having been denied it so long._ _

__His fingers scrabble against the other man’s broad back for purchase, but it’s hopeless. Makoa fucks him at a _delicious_ pace, that leaves Elliott utterly incapable of doing much more than writhing beneath him, not capable of much more beyond desperate mewls of delight, and embarringly high-pitched cries. It thrills him more than he can really say, to be robbed of such total control, and the intense, intoxicated gaze Makoa keeps fixed upon him did nothing to help matters. _ _

__His cock is borderline _painfully_ hard at this point, _aching_ to be touched, as it bucks up against his abdomen with each forceful thrust from Makoa. The other man must be close—or at least, have taken pity on Elliott’s need given all his frankly _pathetic_ pleading by now—but Gibraltar at _last_ releases Elliott’s hand, and takes Elliott’s cock in his own grip, jerking him off at a pace that just about matches how hard he’s fucking him._ _

__Elliott fucking _yells_ —his entire back arching off the bed as he finally, _finally_ fucking reaches climax, spilling hot and heavy over Makoa’s hand, as well as both their stomachs. He’s dimly aware of how tightly his ass clenches around Makoa’s cock as he comes, and seemingly that too, is enough to drive the other man over. Gibraltar is nowhere near as vocal as Elliott, but he comes with a low, heavy groan, lips close to Elliott’s ear as he does. The fact he cries out Elliott’s name as he comes triggers that same, strange tightening in his chest—but he’s coming to realise that that might be a _good_ thing, and perhaps something not to fear._ _

__Or maybe it was just post-orgasm bliss. Whatever._ _

__Still felt good._ _

__Makoa—impressively—manages to continue to balance his weight over Elliott, panting heavily whilst he tries to get himself back together. Once again, Elliott is struck by how fucking _strong_ the other man was—Elliott feels so well and truly fucked that he’s not entirely sure he could pull himself into an upright position even if he fucking _tried_. _ _

__Rather than straight up collapsing and crushing Elliott, Gibraltar manages to summon enough effort to push himself off and roll over onto his side. Elliott is surprised once more, when the other man wraps an arm around him, and pulls him close._ _

__Is this... _cuddling_?_ _

__Okay. Yeah. Definitely not like any of the other people he brought home._ _

__But not a bad thing either._ _

__Rather, Elliott finds himself—fuck, _snuggling_ up beneath the larger man’s bicep. _ _

__This is entirely unlike him. But—entirely not so bad either._ _

__“Well,” Makoa murmurs, turning his head so he’s humming into Elliott’s ear, “S’like I told you. It’s about the experience.”_ _

__Elliott can just about manage a laugh, nestling himself in the crook of his neck. They’re both considerably damp with a dew of sweat, but really—it’s okay. It’s okay._ _

__Which is really fucking bizarre, because Elliott never did anything short of hustling anyone he brought home out the door as quickly as humanly possible._ _

__“Mmff,” Elliott mutters in response, grateful to smother the true extent of how pathetic his response was against Makoa’s shoulder, “you still fucking won, though.”_ _

__Makoa laughs then, and Elliott relishes how like this—like _this_ —he can feel it reverberate throughout the other man’s frame._ _

__Odd, that Elliott has slipped so easily into such a scenario that could be described as borderline _intimate_. Odder still, then, that he’s taken aback when Gibraltar suddenly flips him, straddling his lap and pinning both his hands above his head with a wicked grin._ _

__“I think,” Makoa chuckles, contemplating Elliott’s naked form with a look that promised _so much more_ , “you need to redefine _winning_.”_ _

__Elliott can’t help but echo that smirk back._ _

__\--_ _

__Makoa had been right, back at the bar. Heroes came in all shapes and forms._ _

__And anyone who could last three rounds in bed, was just as worth celebrating as those who lasted three in the ring._ _

__Three, maybe four._ _

__Who knew._ _

__The night was young._ _

**Author's Note:**

> I opted to get a new AO3 because all my previous fic is like 6-7 years old and HEY, landed with this handle! And [volatileSoloist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/volatileSoloist/pseuds/volatileSoloist) pointed out that "it just makes me have this quick mental image of Elliott popping onto AO3/social media and posting his one night stand with Gibraltar in stunning detail". So you know? That's the canon now. Fight me.


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